


The Sins of the Father

by tiger_moran



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes (Downey films), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Angst, Domestic Violence, Forgiveness, Love, M/M, Past Abuse, References to Homophobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-27
Updated: 2013-07-27
Packaged: 2017-12-21 12:39:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,171
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/900418
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiger_moran/pseuds/tiger_moran
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Moriarty must deal with the aftermath of an encounter with Moran's father.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Sins of the Father

   It should not surprise him – not Professor Moriarty, who knows his companion better than anyone; knows of his hot temper, his capacity for violence and of the scars he carries, those on the inside as well as on his skin. He should have accounted for this and defused the situation well before it came to this, or at least have seen it coming in time to counter it. He should _not_ be shocked by it.

   But he is. It makes him recoil mostly not in pain but in astonishment when Moran’s fist connects with his face. Tears spring into his eyes at once, a purely physical response of course, not an emotional one, and yet this _hurts_ , not merely on a physical level but in a much deeper way.

   Moran, a cold, sharp, precise hunter when sober is still a decent fighter even when drunk. He will lash out when cornered; he will brawl when provoked. In the earliest days of their association, when his fury at being cast of the army was at its rawest, there were nights when he staggered home drunk, bruised, battered, knuckles bleeding, after getting into a scrap with some stranger in which those strangers always came off the worst. Moriarty, who did not want to see the clever, capable colonel destroy himself, attempted to train him out of this, coaxing Moran to dispense with such a reckless habit. He had come to think that he had succeeded in curbing his companion’s most uncontrolled, recklessly violent tendencies, yet it seems he had overlooked one vitally important factor.

   It was not, on this occasion, a reminder of his curtailed army career that has set Moran off. No, it was a lone figure, one actually rather pathetic in appearance, yet who still has a grip of iron over the otherwise so strong-willed Moran.

    _“You disgust me_ , _”_ he had said. This frail-looking old man, face lined with wrinkles, balding and with his remaining hair turned nearly pure white, his eyes blue like Sebastian’s, but colder, harder. _“Although I am hardly surprised that your desires have taken such an_ unnatural _course.”_ This said while his gaze flicked over towards Moriarty, passing over him for only a moment as if that was all he was worth, before returning to his son. _“Still, I had thought perhaps you could not succeed in making me even more ashamed of you, yet it seems you have proved me wrong yet again.”_

    And Moran, that bold, brave, violent man, could not lash out at him, not even in defence of the man he loves. Sir Augustus Moran has a hold over his son still that none can equal. Not even Moriarty has quite succeeded in breaking that grip. Sebastian could have felled Augustus with the slightest blow, yet would not touch him. Instead, later, he turned to the bottle to grant him oblivion, to blunt the pain of his continued rejection and condemnation by his father. He brushed aside Moriarty’s attempts to comfort him, preferring the drink, until at last, when the professor put a hand upon his arm, he snapped.

_“Don’t touch me!”_ he had screamed, all that hurt and rage pouring out of him in his words and in the blow. _“Don’t you fucking touch me!”_

   And so here they are, Moriarty reeling back, not falling, but standing here with half his face feeling as if it is aflame and his vision blurry from unshed tears. Of course it is apparent to him, in the calm of the few seconds after the initial blow, that Moran is not truly hitting out at _him_ ; that in his misery he cannot think of anything but his father’s scathing words, but this does not fully ease the sense of betrayal he feels at being on the receiving end of the punch, nor his own bubbling anger a few moments after. 

   Moran trembles as he reaches out to Moriarty, all that aggression suddenly falling away from him. “Professor?” he says, his voice as tremulous as his hand. He looks so small suddenly, so harmless. Still, Moriarty cannot help but momentarily shrink away from his touch. “Oh god, James. I didn’t… I didn’t mean to…” He spins around now and marches away, putting his back to Moriarty, the way in which the professor has recoiled from him striking him far more acutely than had Moriarty retaliated with a blow of his own.

   This, the professor thinks, is the crisis point, the moment upon which everything else will hinge. He is furious at what Moran has done – how dare he strike him, when Moriarty has always shown him such kindness and compassion, accepting him faults and all; how _dare_ he? And yet… Moran is very much in the wrong in hitting him but Moriarty is aware that if he reacts badly to this brief lapse of judgement then Moran will only sink further into his spiral of self-loathing and self-destruction and this is not what Moriarty wants. Still his anger cannot eclipse his affection and concern for his right hand man. Besides, he already grasps that whatever he could do to Moran to punish him for such behaviour, nothing could make the colonel feel any worse than he already feels for lashing out at someone who has never harmed him.

   “Come here,” Moriarty says.

   Moran half-turns, eyeing him warily, yet not without a trace of hope. “Sir…”

   “Come here, pigeon.”

  “I’m sorry,” Moran says, though he does not move.

   “I know.”

   “Please, sir, hit me, hurt me, do whatever you wish to me.”

   “No, pet, not like this.” Moriarty may be naïve in some respects, particularly when it comes to more intimate, more emotional associations with others, but he is no fool. A little violence, a little pain, that is all very well in the controlled context of some of their most private games, but here violence will only beget more violence and cause untold damage. His urge to punch Moran in return is strong and he is absolutely certain that in his desperation to make amends that the colonel will not fight back now if he does so, but it would be most illogical to allow this yearning a free rein. Moriarty can hurt people; he has killed, but he is not some cowardly, spiteful bully, any more than Moran is.

   Moriarty takes a step towards Moran, who now turns fully to regard him.

   “I’m so sorry, Professor.”

   “I forgive you.”

   “No!” Moran cries, still with so much pain in his voice. “I don’t deserve your forgiveness!” His body is tense and unyielding as Moriarty takes him in his arms, drawing him close. “Please…”

   “Shhh, shhh.” The professor strokes his back as he embraces him, feeling all that tension thrumming through Moran’s body. Moran so desperately wants to melt into his arms, to allow himself to accept Moriarty’s forgiveness, but he is afraid to, too terrified of the man he might become should he be forgiven for this. “Sebastian.” Moriarty continues to stroke him, feeling Moran lean into his hold ever so slightly. “You are not your father.”

   He hears and feels Moran swallow thickly, as if he wishes to speak but cannot allow the words out.

   “You are not like him,” Moriarty tells him.

   “I hit you,” Moran says, and his voice sounds oddly hollow as images of his father – not the slight, gaunt figure of now, but the huge, imposing figure who haunts Moran’s memories – flit through his mind. “I wanted to hurt you. I am everything like him.”

   “No, were you anything like him then you would not have stopped,” Moriarty says, still caressing Moran’s back. “You would have rained down blow after blow, and you would not feel such remorse now. Christ, Moran, we both know what you are capable of – you could have _killed_ me if you wished to.” A thought which has occurred to Moriarty before – that Moran, a trained killer, an ex-army man and a former big game hunter – could kill him, perhaps while he sleeps, perhaps in a fight. Moriarty is strong and a former amateur boxer himself and could likely hold his own in a one-on-one tussle with Moran for a while but if Moran was truly in a murderous rage then Moriarty is not certain at all that he could stop him. He must rely then on Moran’s love for and devotion to him – a huge risk, perhaps, but one that has always paid off. “You are _nothing_ like him,” he says fiercely.

   Moran lets out a convulsive sob and buries his face against the professor’s neck. Moriarty is his everything – his employer and his closest friend and companion, and as such a man he would ordinarily be inclined to believe on most matters. This, though… He doesn’t _want_ to disbelieve him, but it is hard to accept what the professor says as the truth when he can feel the ache in his hand and when he can remember quite clearly that brief moment before realisation and remorse gripped him where he felt his fist connect with the professor’s cheek and he wanted to hurt him, or someone, anyone (of course… not just someone really, not anyone, certainly not James, only _him_ , only Augustus).

   He is drunk and tired and still hurting from Augustus’s cruel words. It makes him overemotional, not something with which Moriarty is especially comfortable, but the professor knows that he must endure this. Moran is far too valuable to him both professionally and privately for him to do otherwise. To condemn him for this one mistake is something that Moran’s father would certainly do, but Moriarty is not Augustus Moran either. So he continues to hold him.

   “Professor, your face,” Moran says after a few moments, looking up at him, lifting his fingers to tenderly brush Moriarty’s cheek – a marked contrast to when that same hand last touched his face. Moriarty does not flinch at the touch.

   “It’s nothing,” Moriarty assures him. Indeed though his cheek is reddened and showing signs that it will be soon sporting a rather spectacular bruise across his cheekbone and edging into his eye socket, there is no indication that he has suffered any significant injury. Now that he has blinked away those initial tears his vision is perfectly clear and the damage seems merely superficial – itself perhaps proof that even in those few moments where everything got the better of Moran’s control, he did not really want to harm Moriarty.

   “I’m sorry,” Moran says again.

   “Then show me, truly, that you are sorry, Sebastian.” Moriarty still holds him as he says this.

   “Of course sir, anything you want, I’ll do it.”

   “Don’t turn to the bottle for comfort. Don’t push me away when I try to help you. Moran, I…” _I love you_. He cannot bring himself to say the words, yet there is a space, certainly, where they would fall could he give them voice, and Moran notes this. “I care for you, Sebastian,” he continues, “and I am proud of you.”

   Moran chokes on another sob here.

  “And I wish to be able to continue to say these things, not to see you destroy yourself because of the irrelevant opinions of a worthless man. Above all I want you to remember that it is not your father you have to please. He is simply a man with whom you share a name and blood, no more. He is not important; his opinions, his words, are inconsequential.”

   “Professor.” Moran nuzzles into the hollow of Moriarty’s throat and Moriarty lifts one hand, gently running it down the back of Moran’s head, over and over. “I know, sir, I do know that, that really he doesn’t matter. Only you matter.”

   “Then continue to make me proud of you, hmm?” Moriarty says.

   “I will, Professor, I will, I promise.”

   “Good boy.” Moriarty continues stroking his hair, holding Moran to him. His own anger and hurt have largely gone now, fading simply to a mere dull physical ache in his cheek.

   Overall, he thinks a few minutes later, seated upon the sofa, feeling how the last bit of tension slips out of Moran; hearing his breathing even out as he falls asleep, he has handled this difficult situation – one he certainly never planned for when he met Moran - rather well. No doubt in the morning once Moran is fully sober there may be some residual awkwardness. However, Moriarty is certain that things will be all right between them. Perhaps Moran, still deeply ashamed about what he did, will be a little quieter and less cocky than usual for a bit, but fundamentally speaking things are back to how they should be. Perhaps too with Moran in such a state he may be more amenable to accepting the obvious, the thought that has lurked in his mind for almost his whole life, and in the professor’s mind too for much of his acquaintance with Moran, yet something that up until now Moran has been unable to fully accept:

   Augustus Moran must die.


End file.
